


reality and expectation.

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:59:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2352497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could be a hero, a warrior, a knight.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or: a weird and also very unlikely take on <em>If Bilbo killed Azog</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reality and expectation.

**Author's Note:**

> This whole (very much confusing) thing was inspired by the [BotFA poster](http://trailers.apple.com/trailers/wb/thehobbitthebattleofthefivearmies/) featuring Bilbo. I'm sorry, I really am. Please feel free to ignore this, it was just... a silly experiment of sorts, I guess.

He could be a hero, one of those warriors of old – the ones whose deeds we read about in dusty, yellow-papered books.

He would kneel, then – a true knight, his once spotless armour now torn, his knuckles black with mud and dry blood, the tip of his blade embedded like a diamond in a crack of the rocky floor – his gaze kept low, eyes hidden by a halo of burnished gold hair.

Everything would be quiet around him. Snow would fall silently, dancing above his shoulders like a holy light; the enemy lying on the ground behind him, dark, thick blood pooling beneath the dead body without so much as a sound.

“My liege,” he would say, the morning light caught in his chainmail, its silver embroidery shimmering white and precious like starlight on his chest.

And the King would watch astonished, thin lips parted in surprise. A small, subtle smile would creep in the corners of his mouth.

“Well done,” he would concede, after a moment.

And then their gazes would meet – the embers of a wild fire still glowing in Bilbo’s eyes. The tiniest warrior, his most loyal servant – and Thorin’s eyes would fill with pride.

He would take a few steps closer, his cloak fluttering like ruby red wings, his hand held out for Bilbo to clasp it.

“... _my friend_.”

A fate sealed and shared.

 

Then again, Thorin’s still Thorin, and Bilbo is just Bilbo.

His knees give out and he just plops down on the dale’s floor, spent, shaken – his clothes more dirt than fabric, the mithril shirt now an uncomfortable burden restraining his lungs.

“Thorin,” he chokes out, and before he can get to the ‘n’, Thorin is kneeling before him, gathering him in his heavy arms and Sting is slipping out of the hobbit’s grasp, the blade hitting the merciless ground with a clink and a tumble.

And Bilbo, he is throwing himself right in those arms, diving in as if Thorin were the ocean and his chest was buoyancy keeping him afloat.

O there he is, drawing deep breaths against Thorin’s ear, head slightly tilted back as his chin finds its place on Thorin’s shoulder, and it’s a bittersweet reminder of that first embrace – a picture carved in time, framed by dwarven hands. He can feel Thorin’s fingers tangle up in his somewhat _crispy_ hair, can hear him wonder under his breath just how stupidly reckless hobbits can be – whispers of _don’t ever do that again, please never do that again_ soothing the ache in Bilbo’s heart as he finally breathes, _breathes_ again like a fish underwater.

Snowflakes land on the tip of his nose and get caught in his eyelashes – he sees white and chunks of sky-grey and it all feels so unreal, so peaceful he can’t bring himself to believe _this_. 

But then he finds Thorin’s warmth, and it’s seeping through the layers of clothes and metal and grime, and it makes him shudder, sigh in relief. He’s like a child in his mother’s arms and – quite unsurprisingly, really – he simply gives in, mucked fingers curling in Thorin’s cloak, like they would when he used to pluck roses.

His eyelids slide closed.

“It’s over,” Thorin says, and Bilbo believes him – nods as they come cheek to cheek, soft beard brushing against his skin.

It’s okay now.


End file.
